


it should tear a kid apart (it does)

by blueinkedbones



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Isaac and Scott are each other's anchors, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mindfuck, Plot Twist, Stiles is a smartass, Stiles is the spark, Stilinski Family Feels, Survivor Guilt, derek is a good guy but a terrible Alpha, some spoilers for season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 01:03:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueinkedbones/pseuds/blueinkedbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Son, this isn't healthy."</p>
            </blockquote>





	it should tear a kid apart (it does)

"Son, this isn't healthy." Sheriff Stilinski eyes the pan of bacon suspiciously.

"It really isn't." Stiles turns down the flame and doles out breakfast on two giant white plates. "Happy birthday, Dad. Enjoy it. It's all veggie burgers and salad for the rest of the year."

He puts the pan down to wrap his father in a hug. When he pulls away, there are tears in his dad's eyes.

"Dad—"

Talking is still hard. It's been difficult since Stiles' mother died, neither of them knowing what to say, Stiles barely managing to keep from screaming _I'm sorry I'm sorry oh my God I'm so sorry!_ and not managing to keep the stifling panic under control. It's been difficult lying about werewolves and crime scenes and whatever fucking Monster of the Week the pack has to deal with on any given Monday. And Stiles knows he should just pull the Band-Aid off, get it over with, but he _can't_. So he lies and he keeps secrets, so he slowly loses his mind, so he's the terrible son he always thought he was, so he makes his father breakfast on his birthday and the words get stuck in his throat. So his father is crying, is swiping his eyes with his hand, wedding ring catching the light, so Stiles can't breathe and just pulls Dad against him again.

"I'm sorry," Stiles says, and it isn't close to enough, but his father's hand comes down from his eyes to pat Stiles' shoulder, and he says, "You didn't have to make breakfast," and Stiles says, "Yeah, I did."

_

At school, Scott moons over Allison like the girl didn't gift-wrap and hand-deliver Boyd and Erica to her psychotic grandfather. No, Stiles isn't over it. Isn't over being tortured in the Argent's basement in front of his betas, isn't over being kept out of Scott's master plan. He sits with Scott and pretends not to care when Isaac sets his lunch tray down between them and Scott scoots sideways to give him a seat. Scott can have other friends. Whatever. Scott can do whatever the fuck he wants. Stiles eats his chicken like it requires immense concentration; he's so immersed, he doesn't register Tall, Dark and Lurky's presence until Scott says, "What do you want, Derek?"

Derek looks even grumpier than usual, if possible, and exhausted. He's pale, and there are bruised purple half-moons under his eyes.

"You look like shit. Dude, are you a vampire? Can werewolves become vampires? Like a werewolf-vampire hybrid?"

"What are you talking about?" Scott says, clearly not realizing that Derek is a handful of glitter from a first-prize ribbon in an Edward Cullen look-alike contest.

"Just pointing out that Grumpywhiskers over here looks like he hasn't slept in a thousand years."

"Oh," says Scott. "Right." He exchanges a glance with Isaac, which Stiles tries not to be vaguely paranoid about. He knows his human status means Scott keeps stuff from him, like conspiring with evil geriatrics, but getting shut out of stupid, non-pack shit because he can't read the bromantic angle of Isaac's eyebrows is a couple billion steps too far.

"What?" Stiles snaps. "Human who can't read minds, here."

"I can't read minds," Isaac says, exchanging another look with Scott, which, who asked him?

"No one asked you, buddy."

"I'm just gonna say it," Scott says, looking almost worried, as Isaac mouths " _Buddy_?" at him, eyebrows raised high.

"Yeah, let's hear it," Stiles says, abandoning his chicken to give Scott his full attention. "Derek can wait."

Scott chokes, eyeing Isaac so hard it's a wonder the thing doesn't pop right out of it's socket like something out of _Pirates of the Carribean_.

" _What_?" Stiles demands.

"He's not—" Isaac says.

"Not you," Stiles interupts. "You go take five with Growly McBrooding over there, okay, Scott and I are—"

"There's no one there, man," Scott says.

"What? Oh. Funny. Cuz he's so quiet, right? Hi-freaking-lario—"

"You keep pointing over there and there's no one there," Scott talks over him, quickly. "Do you—do you see someone there?"

"Dude, are you shitting me? I know he's not a big talker, but he's not _invisible_ —"

"There's _no one there_!" Scott's voice is edging into hysterical. Isaac puts a palm on his shoulder, rubs his thumb over Scott's shirt in soothing patterns. "There's—"

"This isn't fucking funny," Stiles says. "I'm not—you're fucking Gaslighting me, aren't you?" He turns to Derek. "C'mon, say something, Broodypants. Growl or grunt or threaten to rip my head off. Whatever."

Derek is uncannily silent. Stiles tries not to freak out.

"This is a spell or something," he says. "Witches, has anyone pissed off a witch lately? Or faeries, I've been reading—"

"Yeah," Scott says, like the worst liar in the history of lying. "Yeah, that's probably it."

Isaac doesn't say anything.

"Scott, I swear to God, if this is a prank—"

"It's not," Scott says immediately.

"Is he dead?" Stiles demands. "Holy fuck, does he look dead to me because he is an actual fucking ghost and I'm Jennifer Love Hewitt?"

"He's not dead," Scott says hesitantly. Stiles senses a "but" coming up. "But?" he urges.

"No buts," Scott says (and Stiles knows this is bad based solely on the fact that Scott didn't stop to giggle and point out, "You said butt."). "He's not dead, because—" He looks to Isaac, before finishing with, "Because he's never been alive."

"What, the, fuck," Stiles says, putting up a digit to emphasize every word. "What the fuck does that mean? Holy shit, is he an angel? Crap, he's not a de—"

"He doesn't exist!" Scott shouts. "He has never existed! He's fictional! And I thought you were playing a joke! I thought you knew he wasn't real, I thought you were playing along, and then I realized you actually thought—you actually think—"

He takes a deep breath. "I know you've been going through a lot, I get it. But our lives are dangerous, man, we can't afford to get distracted or—or _confused_ by imaginary friends."

"If you are fucking with me right now," Stiles says, voice low and dangerously shaky, "I will kill you. I will cut off your head, I swear to God."

"I wouldn't," Scott says. eyes wide and innocent. "You know I wouldn't."

"I will cut off your dick and pickle it and sent it to Allison," Stiles says, and he's crying, and it's humiliating, and he's in a packed lunchroom, and he doesn't care. "I don't care if we've been friends since kindergarten, I will pump you full of wolfsbane and I will wait until you stop twitching."

"If I'm lying," Scott clarifies, and Stiles snaps, "No, I'd kill my best friend for accurately diagnosing my insanity, you moron, oh my God."

"I think that means yes," Isaac confirms. Stiles rolls his eyes so hard he's pretty sure he sent some tears back where they came from. "Thank God for Einstein over here," he snarls, sponging at his eyes with his wrists. He's one thick cough from an exposed snot situation. He hasn't cried this much since—Jesus, he hasn't cried this much since his mom died.

Why the fuck would his head make up Derek Hale?

He's read some things, heard some things. About coping mechanisms, how people deal. Freud would probably have something to say about subconscious psychosexual desire, but fuck Freud. He may have laid the groundwork for psychology, but Adler and Jung took some pretty acclaimed dumps on top of it. And fine, maybe Derek's insanely huge tragedy was a way for Stiles to grieve without feeling like a whiny little brat who killed his mom and now had the nerve to feel sorry for himself.

Or maybe he needs to look at this another way. Maybe he's better off without him. Without Tall, Dark and Bad-Touch scaring him half to death, probably taking years off his life. Without the eye-rolls and the growling and the emotional constipation and the angst, god, the _angst_.

Without the shitty decisions. He's a crappy Alpha, anyway. He nearly killed Lydia, he bit three teenagers who took off as soon as they had a hint of a better option, and he took Peter McMurderer back into his pack _twice_ without so much as a, "Is this anything but a really crappy game plan?" Stiles—and the world, frankly—is better off without him.

Stiles didn't cry this much when Gerard tortured him, or even after, with his dad all around him like he was still a kid. He'd choked a couple dry sobs into his father's shoulder, trembled a little; his voice definitely broke at least once. But nothing like this.

He didn't cry this much when he was paralyzed and Matt cracked his dad's skull with his gun, and Derek—

And Derek—

"Derek saved my dad," Stiles says, voice shaky but steadying. "He has to be real. He saved my dad when Matt—"

Scott and Isaac exchange horrified looks, but Stiles charges on. "You were _there_. You fought the Kanima with him, remember? While I was paralyzed—"

"No," Isaac says, finally showing some real emotion. "No, this isn't happening. You're supposed to—I trusted you to know what you were doing! I thought you were _sane_!"

Now Scott takes Isaac's hand in his, runs his long fingers up and down the Beta's right wrist. Isaac closes his eyes, lets out a long breath.

"When did you become each others' anchors?"

Isaac opens his eyes. "You know what an anchor is?"

"Of course I—" Stiles switches to sarcasm. "No, Isaac. In my months of supernatural research, I've learned absolutely nothing about how werewolves stay in control."

Scott frowns at him. "You do research?"

Stiles throws up his hands. "Are you kidding me? Who do you think I am?"

Carefully, Scott says, "Who do you think you are?"

"You're serious," Stiles says. "That's it. We have officially entered the Twilight Zone. I'm Stiles, Scott. Best friend since kindergarten, dead mom, sheriff dad, crush on Lydia Martin, real swell guy—any of this ringing a bell?"

"Stiles," Scott repeats slowly, like this is his first time hearing it. "Right."

"Dude, this isn't fucking funny."

"And how old are you, Stiles?" Scott says.

"What the actual fuck," Stiles says flatly. "I'm in all of your classes. Obviously I'm sixteen. You know this."

"Obviously," Scott lies agreeably. He and Isaac exchange another look. Stiles runs out of patience.

"Derek saved my dad, Scott. He's real."

"You're right," Scott says. Stiles cocks his ear closer, wrapping his palm around the back for dramatic flair. "Did you just say Derek is real? As in, alive? After all the shit you pulled? After I told you I'd murder you if you were fucking with me?"

"I never said you—I never said Derek wasn't real."

_"What the fuck was all this, then?"_

"Derek! Calm down. _Calm down_. Your teeth—"

Stiles whips his head around, peers behind him to follow Scott's gaze. There's no one there.

"Are you making fun of me?" he snarls.

"Derek, come on," Scott says. "This isn't—We can figure this out, we'll get help! Maybe Deaton will—"

"Derek's real," Stiles repeats hollowly. "That's what you're saying."

"Maybe we should—" Isaac says nervously. His eyes are wide; he looks like he's bracing for a blow. "Not here. There are people. He obviously doesn't—"

"Will someone," Stiles says slowly, a sharp fake smile stretched across his face, tears still drying on his cheeks, "please tell me what the _fuck_ is going on."

"You're right," Scott agrees, ignoring Stiles, because apparently that's a thing now. An Isaac-and-Scott thing: Ignore Stiles. Scott has time to explain shit to his best buddy, but Isaac-and-Scott are too busy holding hands and writing each other books of poetry.

"You know what? Fuck this," Stiles spits, shoving his tray across the table. "I'm just gonna find Derek in my dad's files. I've done it before."

"Your dad," Scott repeats, and Stiles executes an eyeroll so elaborate, his whole body plays a part.

"My dad. Sheriff? Yea high? Made him a birthday breakfast this morning?"

"But your dad—"

"Don't you fucking start," Stiles warns, panic shocking through his veins. "My dad is _fine_. He is watching his freaking cholesterol. Do figments of the imagination do that?"

"Your dad—" Scott starts again, only stopped by a palm over his mouth and a hissed, "Not here!"

"I've got Chemistry next period," Scott mumbles against Isaac's fingers. "I can't miss another class, Harris'll kill me."

"But of course _Harris_ is real," Stiles grumbles to no one in particular.

"We could call Deaton—" Isaac starts, and then Stiles is the one to interrupt.

"Ms. Morrell," he says.

"Who?" Scott says. Stiles growls in frustration, glares at the two of them, and says, very slowly, through his teeth, "The _school psychologist_."

"Oh," Scott says, relief palpable in the air around him. "Yeah, definitely!" Instilled with new direction, he launches from his seat, dragging Isaac along with him. "There's like ten minutes left before lunch ends, I might not even be late for English!"

"Your priorities—" Stiles starts to say, then gives up, exhausted. Dealing with teenagers is exhausting.

_

They make their way through a maze of halls and stairs and people before finding her office and bursting through the door without so much as a knock. There's a stonefaced senior sitting with his arms folded across his chest- at least, until Isaac plucks him from his seat and deposits him outside the door.

"We've talked about your violence," Ms. Morrell says calmly.

"And we've talked about client confidentiality," Isaac says, "but that's not why we're here."

"I was with a student," Ms. Morrell says, but she makes no move to throw the three out. "You're wearing color today," she tells Stiles. "Feeling lighter?"

"Up until my best bro here informed me that I'm losing my mind, yeah, I was pretty freakin' cheery." Stiles sits down in the chair. "It's my dad's birthday today," he says. "Fifty-one."

"That must be difficult," Ms. Morrell says.

Stiles quiets. "I guess," he says, slowly, feeling overexposed. "One year closer to dying, if you wanna be grim about it. But maybe age has nothing to do with it, anyway. You can get hit by a car when you're thirty, or drown when you're fourteen, or—"

"Die in a fire at forty-five?" Ms. Morrell suggests. Stiles shrugs.

"We've talked about guilt," Ms. Morrell continues. "How feeling guilty allows you the illusion of control. What are you feeling now?"

"Confused," Stiles says, glaring at Isaac-and-Scott. "And pissed off, honestly. And a little bit insane."

"He thinks his name is—" Scott frowns.

"Stiles?" Isaac offers, unsure.

"Obviously that's not my _real_ name," Stiles groans, throwing up his hands. "My real name is freaking incomprehensible. I'm pretty sure it's just a bunch of random letters. Stiles is short for Stilinski. Can we cut the crap now?"

"Stilinski," Ms. Morrell repeats. "Like the sheriff."

Stiles swallows hard. "You're not-" He tries again. "Holy fuck, okay, I give up. Who do you think I am?"

"Derek—" Isaac starts. Stiles explodes. "Enough about Derek already! He's not real, right? _Fine!_ He's not real! We're better off without him, anyway!"

"Do you really think that?" Ms. Morrell asks. Stiles takes a deep breath, lets it out.

"He's a giant fuck-up," he shrugs. "Everything he's ever done made the situation about a million times worse. He got nine people killed, okay? And two teenagers running around on their own, and a psychotic uncle waiting to gain his trust so he can kill him, and nothing else! That's his life, so tell me, huh, isn't the world better off without him? Isn't he better off just not _being_?"

"If you're going through—"

"No," he says. "We're not doing that. We're not exchanging platitudes, we're not doing that."

"What are we doing?"

"Burying Derek Hale."

"And who takes his place?" Ms. Morrell prods.

"Stiles," says the very, very tired werewolf. "Stiles Stilinski."

_

He gets home when he gets home; Dad's still at work, there's a note on the fridge.

_I'll be home late. Don't wait up. I love you._

He still doesn't sign it _Dad_. He still stiffens when Stiles calls him that. Rubs his eyes.

But he eats Stiles's food and hugs him close and worries about his wounds, the ones that don't fade and heal and vanish.

He worries when Stiles comes home late, blood-soaked, looking half-dead.

He's always wanted a son. Mrs. Stilinski had died having one.

The kid died too. Gasping, strangled by his own umbilical cord. Died nameless, a handful of random letters scrawled by a grief-stricken widower.

Dad never tried again. With anyone. He still wore his wedding ring, sixteen years later.

Stiles thinks he can relate. The kid who killed his mom, who fucked everything up. He didn't mean to—he was just trying to breathe—but that's what he did, he wrecked everything.

Stiles doesn't deserve his father, but he has him, because Dad sighted Derek that night in the police station, pale and shocked and shaken, and said, "I'm so sorry, son."

He'd pulled Derek into his arms, and Derek had stiffened, senses flaring, and then his wolf relaxed, _packpackpack_. Derek went limp, hung onto the deputy's shoulders like a life raft, like the only wall he could still lean on.

Laura didn't get it, but Laura had a different kind of red eyes, a different kind of coping, and then she was gone, because Derek couldn't keep anything, couldn't have anything, couldn't save anything.

Because Peter—

Because Derek destroys everything, everything.

But not Stiles.

Stiles is a fixer.

Stiles is Scott McCall's best friend. Stiles is Sheriff Stilinski's son. Stiles has a crush on a human girl, and nobody dies because of it.

Nobody dies at all.

It's easy to be Stiles. To hate Derek, the murderer, the creep. To protect Scott, to protect Dad, to protect Lydia, Allison, Erica. Stiles is a protector.

And when it isn't easy, when Stiles is hurt and human and weak—

He isn't.

Because Stiles Stilinski is the _spark_.

Not the fire, not the ash.

The potential to burn and break and destroy, and the power to hold it back.

To stay human.

Unless the wolf is needed. 

Then Derek comes out again.

But Derek hasn't changed. Derek still destroys everything he touches.

Stiles can't contain him anymore.

So Derek has to go.

Derek has to stop _being_.

It's the only way.

_

Stiles lets Derek out for a run, lets him go till his muscles are screaming.

And he buries him.

Then he goes home.

He makes dinner, just in case Dad shows up early. Chicken and stir-fried vegetables. No red meat, no butter, no carbs.

The food simmers on the stove. The fire flickers under the pan, controlled, harmless.

Stiles pulls out two plates, two glasses, cutlery.

Sits down at the kitchen table.

Waits for his father to come home.

**Author's Note:**

> title is a lyric from anyone's ghost by the national.  
> reposted from my ff.net account.  
> [tumblr](http://highwaytohoech.tumblr.com/)


End file.
